


Books, Riverdale and French Fries

by anzoonza



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, all of the characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-06 03:19:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11027517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anzoonza/pseuds/anzoonza
Summary: Just having fun filling in the blanks of season 1.Vignettes done by episode.





	1. 1x1/1x2

**1x1/1x2**

The night was dark and hot. No. The night was (thesaurus: dark), crepuscular and shadowy. No. The night was inky hot. No.

Jughead sat back from his laptop as he reached for his coffee cup. He tipped it back only to find it empty. Frustrated, he clanged it against the saucer. “Free refills on Tuesdays, right?”

Pop came up to him with the pot, “you better thank me in that novel of yours.”

“I always thank the little people . . .”

“And I always help the broke ones,” Pop said, topping the cup off.

Jughead reached over and grabbed the tiny silver pitcher. “The creamer’s warm.”

“Tough.”

Jughead smiled, a rare warmth of affection surging in him as he picked up the hot coffee. It may be humble, but it was home. He went back to his laptop and looked around again, absently hearing the cicadas outside.

“In the night, you could hear the buzz of insects like they were whispering in your ear, telling you that not everything was like it seemed. That it couldn’t be, after so gruesome an act, after such a stark reminder that evil was never far from one’s door. They (thesaurus: buzz) whirred and rang and let you know they lived in the very cracks you tried to forget existed.”

Jughead tapped save and reached for his coffee, now in a victory sip. He pulled his notebook from his bag just as two guys from school entered.

“Yeah man, it’s official - Archie dumped Betty.”

“I didn’t even know they were dating.”

“You don’t need to be dating to be dumped, and he dumped her hard. Wendy overheard it at the dance.”

“That mean Betty’s on the market? Because . . .” His eyes flicked around, landing on Jughead who looked up at them unabashedly. Had Jughead registered on the social spectrum at all, it was through his ties to Archie and Betty, and for a brief moment, he thought they were going to say something to him. Instead, the guy turned back and lowered his voice more, “I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

“Tell me about it.”

The guys grabbed their take-out bags and walked off, leaving Jughead to his thoughts. This was the third time today he had heard something about Archie and Betty, all variations on the theme that Archie had broken Betty’s heart somehow. It wasn’t hard for him to put the actual story together, after all, he had all the facts. The story went something like this:

Way back, a prince made a promise to marry a princess. They grew up together, assured of their blissful future. But in a long, hot summer when they are parted, the prince met a temptress and things happened (in bold, italics). As things do, tragedy struck when the prince returned home changed, having now experienced the carnal temptations of a vixen. He tells the princess their future can no longer be.

In stories like this, if they were just stories, the Prince would meet a foul end for giving up loyalty and love for loose morals, and the Princess would die of a broken heart. Fairy tales were pretty harsh.

In reality, if it was something that if it had been any other two people at Riverdale High, he’d roll his eyes and be grateful he didn’t know them. But these two people were his friends, his only friends. Which meant that deep down, he knew Archie had always liked other girls and something like this was bound to happen. He just wished it hadn’t happened to Betty. She didn’t deserve it. Betty was the sort of girl who wore her heart on her sleeve. Because of this, it could be damaged easily and wildly. This would have rocked her to the core. He didn’t like that. Nor could he understand how Archie could do that to Betty. Betty was . . . There wasn’t anyone like Betty. Not a single one. Maybe then, if Archie couldn’t see that, maybe this was for the best. But the thought of Betty crying . . .

Jughead reached over and grabbed his coffee, taking another long sip, feeling a deep sense of displeasure at life. He opened up a new page and put the coffee down.

“In the midst of life and death, murder and truth, people attempted to live ordinary lives with ordinary problems. They spotted someone in a hallway and fell in love. They got angry at the punk kid who took advantage of a free refill policy. They worked and lived and fought to make connections. And even though the horrible act hung over them, it did not become a reminder that life was precious or that people needed taking care of. Instead, they lied and gossiped and broke each other’s heart like any other day. Except now they wondered which one of these deeds we do to each other had led to the death of Jason Blossom.”

* * *

 When she tilts her head over her shoulder and looks up at them, he can’t help his smile. She’s a Hitchcock blonde, a Disney princess, a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, Audrey Hepburn in ‘Funny Face’ and Shoshanna beguiling Hans Landa in ‘Inglorious Basterds.’ It’s why he likes her and immediately, he remembers how he met her.

She had pigtails then, little white-blonde tufts tied with pink plastic bands that matched the pink dress she wore. Archie sat next to her in a neat striped shirt and jeans with the cuffs rolled up. They sat at a bright blue picnic table, their lunch boxes open and the contents strewn about them.

Jughead was in a Star Wars shirt with a hole in the collar, ratty shorts, his left hand holding an empty paper bag he had filled with socks because it was mandatory to bring lunch from home.

He needed a place to sit, and they had the only table with space. His stupid teacher wouldn’t let him sit by the tree. So he had come up and just stood there, his eyes on the empty-space, waiting for them to make some horrible comment.

“Do you want to sit here?” Archie had said.

He sat.

The new problem was that now he was supposed to eat, but he had nothing to eat. Which meant he would have to talk. But he hated talking. Stupid field trips.

Before he could open his mouth, the girl with the pretty eyes was surveying the table. Then, in a moment, she began moving things.

“Betty, don’t touch my food!”

Betty just gave him a look and continued. She moved her milk to Jughead and pulled an apple juice from her lunchbox. She laid out napkins and poured her raisins and then Archie’s nuts in neat piles in front of each. Then she took half of her sandwich and put it in front of Jug to where he could smell the rich, warm aroma of peanut butter. Lastly, she gave her cupcake to Archie and took Archie’s brownie, broke it in half and put a piece in front of her and one in front of Jughead.

Archie went bright red when she realized what she was doing. Jughead imagined his face was a similar color. They were too young to know what the word ‘charity’ was but they knew something was up. Something that wasn’t normally done and done now only because Betty had noticed something people were not supposed to notice or acknowledge. Something she didn’t want to make Jughead say.

When it was done, Betty reached up to her sandwich and looked over at Archie. “I’m going to take Swimming 2 this summer. I don’t care what my Mom says.”

“Yeah, yeah . . .” Archie swallowed, reaching for his milk, his eyes on Jughead for a moment. To Jughead’s surprise though, it wasn't pity or suspicion as he had seen in others. It was just -- it was as if Archie was curious about him. Betty continued to ramble on about swimming.

Jughead waited another moment and then reached out and tentatively, slowly took a nut, afraid they would laugh or worse, take all the food back. When he swallowed it and reached for another one, this time taking three, he looked up to see her. “I’m Elizabeth Cooper. And this is Archibald Andrews.”

“Forsythe Jones,” he said, adopting the same formal tone she had just taken. It was the first time he had ever said his actual name to anyone.

“Call her Betty,” Archie said. “She just says Elizabeth to sound like a grown-up. Which she’s not. I’m Archie.”

“Oh, uh,” he faltered. “I’mjughead.”

“What?”

“Jughead.”

“What?” Archie said.

She batted Archie and then looked at him, her eyes dropping down to his shirt, “I think Leia is a bigger hero than Luke.”

Jughead eyes flashed down to his shirt, and then he frowned. Leia, a bigger hero than Luke? Was she serious? “Luke is a Jedi.”

“So’s Leia. Twins. But they don’t allow women. So people should not like them,” Betty said, her voice becoming more forceful. “Also, the Jedi just fight stuff and then hide. Leia rallied her people, then the resistance, and got everyone fighting. You don’t win wars on your own.”

“But he did the thing with the thing---” Archie said, smiling at Betty, like he was proud of her for getting angry at a movie, at a t-shirt.

“She did the message with R2 ---”

Jughead felt himself matching Archie’s expression, not sure if it was because of Betty but because that this was normal. Like what he imagined talking with schoolmates could be like. Like that show, he had seen on tv. He swallowed, feeling good, and looked at Betty. “Then one person shouldn’t be **_the_ ** hero. If it takes people, then all people should be heroes. Both Luke and Leia.”

Betty’s eyes flashed back to his, her face twisted in thought and surprise. She was pretty. He had never thought girls were. But she was pretty like the sun, or a balloon, or pancakes. After a moment, she said carefully. “Ok. They’re the same. Both heroes.”

“Both heroes,” Jughead said, his grin becoming wide as he reached down for the sandwich with the peanut butter. He took a bite, and her smile went wide, her eyes lighting up with glee. No, he thought, bestowing on her the ultimate gift - pretty like a milkshake. With the real whipped cream and a cherry. Like the one at the diner, his parents had taken him too for Jellybean’s second birthday, when things were good. That had been the happiest moment of his life. Until now. Now it was this. He had made friends. Actual friends. Friends he wanted.

He still couldn’t taste peanut butter without remembering the glory of that moment.

After that, they had splintered slightly but had always remained friends. Jughead and Archie had become the closer as Betty signed up for every curricular and every tutoring session possible. Jughead preferred being the library or the diner, reading every book he could get his hands on and scrounging for enough change to get at least chips and a coke for lunch. Archie’s father always worked late so Archie would meet him there and they’d eat dinner together. Betty had to be home promptly at 6. Archie’s father gave Pop some money to watch Archie but it ended up going towards Jughead’s dinners. Nobody said anything, and secretly, Jughead hated it, now knowing the term ‘charity.’ But home to him was the diner, and Archie and Pop were his family. At least he had that. And free books as long as he returned them on time. And a laptop his father had bought him after three months of sobriety and one paycheck with 17 hours of overtime, a record for any one worker in the construction company.

But Betty had always stayed important to him, even as she ventured farther and farther away from them. He had tried to explain it to Archie once but it hadn’t gone well. Not because of Archie but because there was no right way to explain it.

How did you tell someone that he couldn’t think about girls without thinking about Betty? Like they should just all be Betty. That they didn’t do much for him as they did with Archie. Archie liked girls for different reasons. Because they were pretty, because they wore strawberry chapstick, because they wore shorts that were cut short, because they danced at lunch. Jughead didn’t think about that. He thought about books and Riverdale and how much he liked french fries. If he thought about girls, he thought about them in relation to Betty. “She’s not as smart as Betty.” “She wouldn’t help a squirrel with a broken leg.” That kind of stuff.

It wasn’t until later that he thought maybe he was in love with Betty. It was going around. Suddenly every kid at school was hopelessly in love with someone else. Even then though, he was pretty sure he was wrong. He had read about love, and his own feelings didn’t match. To him, it was very easy and very factual. He loved Betty because there was no girl like Betty. And he would not pine or live in the misery of unrequited love because Archie and Betty were his friends and he knew their agreement -- he knew Archie had got there first. Mostly though, it was just that pining seemed stupid when you couldn’t even walk down the hall without someone pushing or yelling or somehow angry that you even existed. It was best just to focus on books, Riverdale, and french fries.

So it had been until this week. This week there had been . . . Well, there had been a lot of new information. Because he realized that Archie didn’t think of Betty as he did. Archie thought girls were better than Betty. Archie wanted those different girls, like the dark-haired girl sitting beyond Betty right now, looking like Snow White and the Evil Queen all in one.

Not just that, but that there was no decided fate. There was no Betty and Archie, period, end of sentence -- him just the fool put in the play between acts, so the crowd had something to throw things at while the actors prepared for the next scene. There was Archie, and there was Betty. No story. No play. No defined end.

And Betty. . . Well, to look at her now made his heart hurt. A completely new thing for him. All full of possible.

“Do you want to sit with us?”

“Yes, but only if you’re treating,” he said, knowing already that Betty would order a Juicy Louis Burger and extra french fries expressly because she couldn’t eat it all. Betty’s plate was practically a food group for him.

He collapsed in the booth, thinking about his book and how great a love triangle between the red-haired boy and his blonde-haired and black-haired suitors could be. How lucky Archie was for something like that. All the crazy things that occurred this week that were itching to be put down to paper.

But still, there was something else -- something he couldn’t say or narrate or write down. It was a plan, no, not a plan. A bold outline for a new story. A story he wanted to tell more than even that of Jason Blossom. A story that had just begun to take shape and like kindling, with care and attention, could burn brighter than any flame if he was patient.

He thought again about the fairytale. There was another one out there. One that girls seemed to love more and more these days. Where the girl finds the prince obnoxious and full of himself and instead becomes captivated by the rogue. Or Quasimodo or Aladdin. Stories of wayward adventurers and storytellers who find home in the girl who wants nothing more than her own adventure.

He looked over at Betty and raised his eyebrows at her smile. It’s a language they’ve had since they were kids -- that silent fight about Luke and Leia both being heroes continuing on -- as if with just a glance, a smile, a wink or the raise of an eyebrow, they can hold hands and jump into a world that’s much better than the one they live in. A world where everyone works together, does good and is a hero.

It was ridiculous to think of Betty in the tower. That was what her Mom wanted, for sure. And maybe even Archie, deep down. He could go off, slay a few dragons, and return when he was ready. But Betty was not that sort of girl. She had her own sword, her own brain, and that would go to waste if they weren’t used. He saw that. Nobody else did, but he did. Didn’t that make him sort of perfect for her?

He held his breath -- he hoped so. Because there wasn’t anything he wanted more than to take her hand and jump into that new world. With even the chance of it out there now, he couldn’t go back to books, Riverdale, and french fries. He had to do something. But what else was there besides books, Riverdale, and french fries?


	2. 1x6 (with 1x3, pt. 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh -- for all the people who showed support and commented on the prior chapters, I'm sorry. When I went to post the chapter tonight, AO3 hiccuped and I lost my first and second chapter. I was able to pull the first chapter from a cache but when I put it back in, I lost the comments. Then I lost chapter 2 and the chapter 2 comments. I found chapter 2 but feared to post it for losing even more -- for those who want that, let me know and I'll post it in the comments. 
> 
> For now, enjoy chapter one and a new chapter. 
> 
> More importantly: Thank you, everyone, for your support. I really did love the comments!!

1x6 (with 1x3)

_Betty_

Veronica had once said to her: “Total dark. No stars.”

She hadn’t thought much of those words until now . . .

It had been easy to put everything on. Like the way you plan a Halloween costume. You decide to want to be something and then you find the component parts.

For most of her life, that had been easy because, each time, each Halloween costume she wanted to be, she had help. When she wanted to be Leia and had brought herself to tears because she just didn’t have enough hair, Polly had laughed, bought a generic blonde wig, and then cut it up to give her the ‘cinnamon buns’ she needed. When she wanted to be Wonder Woman, it had been Polly who convinced their parents it wasn’t too risque and then had helped her spray-paint gold on cardboard to give her the bracelets that gave her her very own forcefield. So when it came for her to dress up to avenge Polly, she had looked it at almost clinically --- she needed to be a certain thing to get something done.

So she had bought the bra and the wig and locked her door. She played with her make-up until it matched the colors that were not her own. Then she wiped it all away, stood up, put everything in a canvas tote bag and left her house without a word.

Veronica’s words to her that night hadn’t even registered. All she could think about was what she had to do, what she had to be, and for the first time in her life -- it had felt right. Like the minute she put on the costume, she would be that person. Not because Polly had given it to her, not because she had been a child who wanted to play in the clothes of another for a night, but because, in some ways, she had been preparing her entire life for this night.

And it had felt right. Too right.

Until it was done. Until she sat in the mirror and looked at herself. Because the humidity from the hot tub, or the fear, had made the make-up at her eyes blur and messy itself. Because she hated that she couldn’t recognize herself at the end. Because no matter what she did, Polly wasn’t there to tell her she could be anything she wanted to be. Because she could have hurt someone, even when she was fighting back against someone who hurt others. Because for, moments of that night, she had become something she wasn’t sure she understood or could control. And somewhere in those moments, she had liked it.

Since that moment, she had hated herself for that night; for being so stupid to think that was the right move; for thinking she could have a release like that; for believing she could find Polly like that.

Because now, now that she stood at the gates of the Sisters of Mercy she knew what Veronica had once said was right. Just not for her. There may be a darkness within her but this place was the true meaning of ‘total dark, no stars.’

She looked over at Jughead, somehow steady and normal and just-Jughead next to her. How had that happened? How had he - why could it be only him that was here with her? She wasn't sure but she felt a certain, inviolable comfort that it was him.

Betty turned back toward the building. She lifted her fingers and tightened her ponytail, fastening her costume.

It was time to go rescue Polly.

 

* * *

_Jughead_

Here was a man and here was a cliff. If that cliff was a weather-beaten ladder leading up to the bedroom of one Betty Cooper. A bedroom he hadn’t seen since he was eleven and even then, it had been in passing. All he really remembered of it was how yellow the whole thing had been -- yellow wallpaper, yellow pillows, yellow comforter, even the white wood had little yellow knick-knacks. It had been like walking into the sun, like walking into her hair --- not that blonde was yellow, it wasn’t, but there were so many books that compared the two, and he had --- he didn’t know what he meant -- how was he so nervous?

What he meant was that it was that it had felt like something foreign, something sacred, like the way he imagined walking into the Louvre in Paris or the Museum of Antiquities in Cairo would feel like.

Jughead took a labored breath and found his eyes drift over to Archie’s window, the room dark but the curtains open enough that he could make out the outline of his dresser. He could be home. Archie could be there and go up to his room and see him. And then he would know. Because you don’t just do this. You don’t just climb a girl’s window. Because when you do, it says something.

It says . . .

Well, hell, didn’t Romeo say it all when he showed up at Juliet’s?

Jughead’s heart jumped in his chest.

What the hell was he doing? To think he and Betty were ---

Jughead turned around and went through the yard with every intention of escape. But when he hit the fence, his eyes closed and his hand went to the hard wood. He wanted this. He really, really wanted this.

Since that horrible day of her so-called “date,” he had started to visualize kissing. Not him. But Trav. Trav kissing Betty. It had revolted him. To escape that, he had put himself in the frame. Now, now he couldn’t stop . . .

He had had three kisses in his life. One was a girl who ran up to him, pressed sticky lips against his and then ran away. That had horrified him. The second girl had been on a bus, and it had been a dare. Later he found that she ‘liked him, like really really liked him’ but all he could think about was that her nose had pressed into his own uncomfortably. The third had licked his lips, and he had felt the instinct to open his mouth. He didn’t, but after that, he had found three films that expressly had what they called “french kissing.” It had fascinated him. He didn’t quite understand why people did this; why they wanted to.

Now, now, well . . .

Betty sometimes wore lipstick. It did things to her face. It made her eyes appear bluer, her lips more noticeable. He didn’t ultimately like make-up, but he liked seeing the changes in her face. He liked how it made him look at her face. Like her features could be highlighted as if they were beautiful, important words on the page of a book. 

She also liked to lick her lips when she read. Or sometimes she pursed her lips and then licked them. He tried not to notice that. To not notice the way her tongue went over her lips. To not notice the way her tongue was a lighter pink than his own, two shades lighter than her mouth -- Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her mouth? Something was actually wrong with him.

But that didn't change the fact that he wanted to kiss her. Maybe more than anything. Maybe even more than his family reuniting. 

He turned back to the ladder.

There, he looked again at Archie’s window. If Archie were there, it’d be a sign that he had disrupted the order of things. Because Jughead and Betty don’t end up together. Archie and Betty do. Not Romeo and Juliet, really. He couldn’t really see Archie slaying Tybalt and then himself over his beloved. But like an advertisement for washing machines. In their perfect house, in their perfect life, with their perfect clothes that have no grass stains on the knees.  

But . . .  what if there was another narrative? Another story. The story . . . Their story. Truer than fiction. Reality.

Right . . . reality. That thing they had just gone through, that horror story of a life. Polly. 

Polly had always been a moon that orbited Betty to him. She was different in the way girls in higher grades were, pretty in that she had the same glossy hair and bright eyes Betty had. But the only time he had really ever noticed her was as being the thing that made Betty’s face appear different than it usually appeared. She looked at Polly like Polly was something loved, something cherished. The way he imagined his own face looked when he was with Jellybean.

So he knew what it meant when Polly had been taken away. But he couldn’t fathom, could not still fathom, what it could have done to Betty to see Polly like that at that place. It had been too much. He had felt the pain like it was his own.

They had shared something in these past few days. More than books, Riverdale and french fries. More than even this: His stupid self in front of a stupid ladder about to do something stupid for a girl. 

Not that this was easy.

He breathed. Another narrative.

One he had to know. One he had to try for -- before Trev (ick) or whoever got in there (horrible thought). Reflexively, his eyes flicked to Archie's room.

He’d count to 100. If Archie showed up, if there were any movement, he would walk away forever. Accept his own narrative and move on.

At 75, it hit him that he didn’t really have a plan other than to go up and somehow kiss her. No, not kiss her. Be there for her. That’s what he should do. Just that. Except he really, really wanted to kiss her. And if he didn’t, who was to say she didn’t go on another ‘date’? Of course, technically he and her had gone to Jason Blossom’s wake together. But neither had said ‘date.’

He had thought it could be a date though. He had dressed up. She had noticed. That had been great. Suits were definitely to be considered going forward. But she had never said date . . . what was he doing?

At 50, he thought maybe this was the worst time ever. Like seriously, they had just found Polly, pregnant, in an institution. Why now?

At 25, he panicked -- wait, had he promised himself he would go if he hit 0 or just that he wouldn’t go if he had seen Archie in the 100.

At 0, he took a deep breath.

He wasn’t going to be Betty’s first kiss, not even Archie was (some idiot named Ralph had claimed that - stupid game in middle school) and she wasn’t going to be his. But if he was writing his own story, his own narrative, this would be it. This would be his first kiss. And he'd be hers. And for one moment, a big moment, their lives wouldn't have lost sisters and lost families and murders and death and books and Riverdale and french fries. For a moment, it'd be just them and something as perfect as a first kiss. 

Just for a moment. 

Wasn't that worth fighting for too?

Jughead stepped up the first rung of the ladder. “Alright Romeo, let’s try this . . .”


	3. 1x07

1x07

The police station was horribly lit. All fluorescent lighting on stark white floors. 

It bothered Betty. Somewhere in this place sat Jughead, in terrible lighting, with nothing to eat and no one to talk to. For what reason? For why? She looked up again at the counter where the Sheriff Keller sat idly shuffling papers. “Why again is Jughead here?”

“Like I told you, we have a few questions---”

“What questions?” 

The sheriff gave her an impatient look. “Questions.”

Betty simmered, “you can’t---”

A hand came down on her shoulder, and she looked over at Archie sitting next to her. “Breathe, Betty,” he whispered. “This is the police. They---”

“They should be investigating the murder!” Betty growled, her voice purposefully a little louder than a whisper. “Not creating some sort of witch hunt!”

“Betty--” Archie protested, his eyes flicking to the Sheriff and back to her.

Betty ignored the warning and looked back at the Sheriff. “Need I remind you we found the car together?”

“Which was destroyed before any investigation could be done,” the Sheriff responded, not even looking up.

“I was with Jughead when the car was being destroyed.”

The Sheriff raised his head and an eyebrow at her.

“Oh, what? Now I’m a suspect too?”

“Betty,” Archie said, now grabbing her hand. “Stop.”

“Listen to your friend. Archie is a good guy, ” the Sheriff said, turning away to go back to his office. 

“So’s Jughead!”

The office door shut. 

Betty looked over at Archie. “This isn’t fair.”

“It isn’t. But you’re not going to help anyone by throwing yourself into the fire.”

“So, what? We do nothing?”

“We called my Dad. We called FP. We’re here.”

The answer did not calm Betty at all, but she let Archie go quiet so she could think. Her eyes went to the entrance. She tried to will FP there, to make him be where he needed to be. But even as she did so, with everything within her, she knew he wouldn’t show up.

It wasn’t new to her. She had known Jughead for so long and not once had she met FP. Instead, it was like looking at a photo album, all images, nothing real. Like the first time, she had seen him: Standing against a dark car in the back of the middle school parking lot.

Back then, which felt like a million years ago though was really only a year or two, they all left school to find their parents waiting in cars or standing together on the grassy knoll near the flag post. The day she saw FP, he hadn’t been in either place.

That day, she had come out of 8th period upset about her science teacher giving her a B- because she hadn’t correctly identified all of the compounds in an exam. Something she had felt was brutally unfair because she was behind Reggie, and Reggie had shook each test tube as he passed, leaving her with nothing she could really see. 

So she had come out, angry and distracted, knowing that her mother would just see the grade. And ground her or suggest yet another after-school tutoring session, like somehow she wasn’t smart enough to understand compounds even though she did.

In the middle of that, she had bumped into Jughead who she expected to at least pause for a moment. Maybe commiserate. Instead, he had mumbled “my Dad’s here, gotta go” and walked off. Betty’s eyes had followed him, frozen in her spot, forgetting everything about her grade in science -- Jughead’s Dad was here?  

Betty looked around, studied it really, and then saw him. It had to be him. He was away from the other cars and parents, wearing an older looking Hunter’s Jacket and paint-stained jeans. He seemed out of place, but as she took him in, she could see bits of Jughead in him -- the same shoulders, the same slouch. She wanted to get closer: To know if he had the same dark hair, the same light, sometimes green, sometimes blue eyes. Really though, she just wanted to know something of Jughead’s life apart from what she already had. It was important to her. 

So she stayed at the doorway and watched as he moved through the lower lot and then up to the back lot, his beanie and his Army-Navy backpack pulled tight against his back. 

When he finally reached FP, FP moved around the car and got in. Just like that. No greeting. Nothing. It was odd to her, but then she thought maybe what some called “being cool, ” and she called “aloof” (English had come easy to her) was a Jones family trait. 

Only later, when her and her mother were driving away did she wonder if it was something else. Something that she had feared about Jughead. Without thinking about it, she had turned to her mother in her car and said: “what do you know about Jughead’s dad?”

Her mother had coughed abruptly and then had hit the call button on her phone, “we need to call your father. He may need us to pick up something on our way home.”

Betty had tried again later in the evening, but her mother had cut her off and left the room. After a while, Betty had given up, and when Jughead got a ride from Fred the next day and the day after, it went out of her mind.

So became a pattern. She would see FP, always at a distance but they never interacted, she would obsess about it only for it to go away as FP’s presence did. 

Every now and then, out of nowhere, mostly when they were alone, Jughead would say something about him. It always threw Betty when he did. Like suddenly, when he talked about something so personal, would she realize how close they were as friends. It flustered and confused her. She wanted all of the details, to ask him questions until the mystery was solved. But when she would go to speak, she would see his face, his expression so different than what she knew of him and the words would fall short. So in the end, she just let herself be Jughead’s friend and watch whatever family drama he had from afar . . .

Except now she regretted that. Because Jughead needed someone and she could do nothing about that. She had nothing, and she felt like it was her own weakness. “I can’t believe FP isn’t here.”

“You know FP . . .” Archie sighed. “He could be anywhere.”

She turned her head back to the Sheriff’s office. She spoke loudly: “Aren’t there laws that protect against stuff like this?”

Archie shifted: “Betty, calm down. It’s not like he’s in danger.”

“Of course he’s in danger!”

Archie gave her a skeptical look, “he’s sitting in a room somewhere. He’s going to answer their questions and then they’re going to release him.”

“But--”

“We both know he didn’t do it.” Archie stretched, “besides it’s Jughead, he can handle this stuff. He’s tough.”

Betty grimaced at that. She stood up, and for lack of a better thing to do, began to walk down the hall. 

“Where are you going?”

“Vending machine,” she said, not bothering to look back.

_ He can handle this stuff. He’s tough.  _ Betty mouthed the words, mocking their meaning. First FP. Now Archie. How was this even possible? She pulled her phone up and googled the words ‘constitution’ and ‘police station.’

Far too many results popped up. It took awhile to find something, but she did. “A-ha! There. Fifth Amendment.” She mumbled through the words of it until they became relevant. “Nor be deprived of life, liberty or property without due process of law--

So there, she thought. This was wrong. He was being deprived of his liberty. And they couldn’t do that. They couldn’t take him away from her. Not without due process. Whatever that meant.

She put the words ‘due process’ in her phone and scanned the results, thinking something like this should be much easier. She clicked into a website, but the explanation was long and irrelevant. It gave her the same hopeless feeling that being at The Sisters of Quiet Mercy had given her. Like there was this world out there that could do what it wanted, regardless of what happened. 

Maybe that had been what Jughead had always gone through. 

Maybe this was how it went. Jughead could have nothing. Polly could be held away. The world she continually crashed against could be like a rock and she the wave. All hard surfaces and she helpless to not fall apart at impact. Weak and ineffectual. 

For a moment the abyss of it hit her. Wouldn’t it be easy to just give up and give in? To ---

Her thoughts held.   

Because she had found Polly. Twice. Jughead and her had --- it was how they had found the institution, the car, Polly’s hiding place. They had somehow done that. Not just that, but they had . . . they had found something amidst all of the madness.

Something . . .  Betty bit her lip. 

She had promised herself that she was going to really think about all of it. Before this, she was going to go home, grab Caramel and her diary and think about it. Because it required thought, a lot of thought, like all the thoughts.

Jughead had full on Romeo’d her. He had climbed up to her bedroom, told her the world was crazy and kissed her, really kissed her. Jughead, who at times she was convinced was asexual, now held the memory of ‘most romantic moment in her life.’

Because he had. Because that kiss had been everything.

He had floored her. 

Not just that, but she had wanted more.

She still did. Then, now, last night, just more. 

She wanted him around her. Like the way his fingers had felt entwined against hers the night before -- all bone and skin, squeezing tightly. Like that. Like there was nothing in the world but the way their bodies felt against each other, equal parts soft and strong. 

He had stumbled to define it, and she had been distracted, but it didn’t change what she felt. What she felt was clear to her: They had something. Something she had never seen nor understood but now wondered if she had always felt. There was just . . .

There was something more. More than rocks and waves, more than parents and grades, more than anything. 

She wouldn’t let them take her away from him. Not like this. 

Not now.

Not NOW when she felt like she had someone. Someone who had fought for her. Who maybe could give her something new, something different; a world full of possibility.

The same boy who had walked up to his father meekly, his cheap Army Navy backpack against his back. The same man who had embraced her problems, her own drama, without reservation or judgment.

Something worth fighting for. Someone . . . someone who was hers. 

It had never occurred to her. But now here it was, plain as day --- the boy she had met in an oversized ‘Star Wars’ t-shirt had become the boy, the man she needed. 

Her gaze went back to her phone, making sure she had the full text of the fifth amendment up and at her disposal. She tightened her ponytail and walked back down the hall only to find that Fred arrived.

He and the Sheriff now stood at the front desk. 

“Look, we need to be able to see him,” Fred said. “He’s an underage kid, probably scared out of his mind . . .”

“Doesn’t change what he did.”

“So you are accusing him,” Betty said. “Formally? Because then he needs a lawyer.  _ Due process.” _

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then you can’t do this! You can’t just---” Betty breathed, “have you read the fifth amendment---”

The Sheriff gave her a look like she was a child who had spilled milk all over the table. “Have you forgotten that we are investigating a murder?”

“He didn’t do it!!” Betty said, squeezing her phone tightly, too tightly in her left hand. 

Fred breathed audibly and then looked at the sheriff, “it sounds like you’re just doing your job---”

Betty looked over at Fred only for him to give her a look as if to say ‘I’ve got this.’ 

“But it also sounds like this is pretty informal---” Fred continued.

“Yeah,” the Sheriff said, and something inside Betty loosened slightly.

“Then let us get in there, just as a---” Fred faltered. “I know he’s not an usual kid, but he’s still a kid. What if it were Kev?”

The Sheriff turned away and then turned back, looking at Fred. “Fine, you want to go in?”

Betty looked over at Fred and time slowed. Archie and Fred had always been something special to her. It wasn’t just that Archie had been -- well, everything to her at one point, it was also that she sometimes envied the stability and normalness of Fred. 

But that was the past, and this was different. This wasn’t about parents or Riverdale or any of the -- of the -- of the bullshit. It was about now. And now was her and Jug. Because when it came down to ‘total dark, no stars,’ he had been there. Not because he had to be. Not because he was supposed to be. But because he chose to be. Her person.

Now she was his. “No, me.”

“Betty--” Archie began.

“Betty--” Fred spoke over him. “Maybe I---”

“I need to see him,” she said. “And he needs to see me. Which room?”

The Sheriff looked at Fred. 

“Dad---” Archie said lightly.

“Which room?” Fred said.

“IR 4. Just there,” the Sheriff said. “But this is a police station, which means that anything said in there---”

“Anything I’d say to Jug about Jason’s murder, I’d say to you.” 

“Kev said you were stubborn,” the Sheriff said. “I get that now.”

Betty turned and walked down the hallway. She smoothed her jacket, she took a breath, and she looked into the opaque window with the characters ‘IR 4’ printed on it. With a quick steadying breath, she grasped the knob of the door, determined to get in before the sheriff or whoever else stopped her. 

As she opened it, Archie said something, but she couldn’t hear it. Her entire world focused to Jughead sitting slumped behind a table. 

His eyes flicked up to her, wide and dark, beautiful in their own way. “Betty, you shouldn’t--- you can’t--- ”

“It’s okay,” she said. She moved over to the wall where a chair sat against it. It clanged loudly as she brought it to the table. Jughead watched it anxiously, and she hated the way the noise seemed so loud, so aggressive. It made a bunch of words and lines appear in her head -- soft, soothing words like the ones he had said to her ‘they’re all crazy’/’I’m in.' She didn’t say them. She just held his glance on her and sat.

“Hi Juggy,” she said.

“Are you okay?” He muttered. 

“Are you?”

There was a pause as they looked at each other. She could see so much in his eyes at times to where there were moments that she thought maybe, in a quick flash, she saw all of him. Right now, though, all she saw was apprehension and fear. 

But it was okay. Because they were here. Together. And she wasn’t going to let them take him away from her. Not for anything. 


End file.
